


Cold War

by Skatinggirl2011



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:33:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11219499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skatinggirl2011/pseuds/Skatinggirl2011
Summary: A strange woman is sentenced to Arkham Asylum, with little to no background or information on her following a thwarted attack on a government facility. Some, including Dr. Jonathan Crane, question her placement in such a facility, others understand. Madness is, after all, a matter of perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself and branched out to the Batman verse with my OC, Makeda, based on rp-interactions over at my tumblr, kei-oh. It gives me a chance to develop her more and explore the grittier side of humanity. I've always loved the Batman/DC universe and have stories based in it in the past, and that love has resurfaced into this fic.

_Patient Name: REDACTED, Makeda_

_Date of Birth: REDACTED_

_Place of Birth: ALIEN OF SOUTH SUDANESE ORIGIN; DATE OF NATURALIZATION REDACTED_

_Sex: FEMALE_

_Hair: SILVER_

_Eye: Brown_

_Height: 5’5_

_Weight: 115 lbs_

_Previous Associates: Slade Wilson, William ‘Billy’ Wintergreen (decd.), Talia al Ghul, Jade Nguyen_

_Arkham Inmate No.: 57821_

_Intake Notes:_

_Sentenced to Arkham Asylum following several premeditated attacks on REDACTED and its known associates. Patient exhibits symptoms of disassociation and selective mutism throughout trial, but shows no outward signs of aggression. No further information or previous diagnoses were released by government sources. Due to weight of her crimes and knowledge of her skill, it was recommended by government sources that she be confined to the maximum security wing. No evidence, besides the crime and evidence submitted to the court, was provided to back up the recommendation. Police and guards in the court room noted a relatively calm demeanor. Still unsure why the judge sentenced her to Arkham- only that evidence provided suggested a mental disturbance. Such evidence, like most everything about the patient, was withheld on grounds of compromising national security._

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jonathan Crane closed the thin, manila file on the newest patient assigned to his care, wondering how exactly to proceed with such little information on a patient who refused to talk.

His gut reaction was to add her to his growing list of patients to experiment his toxins on, but that wasn’t an option. Not yet, at least. Given the tight-lipped nature of the CIA on the nearly catatonic woman sitting before him, this was someone they would keep tabs on- at first. He’d seen it before. Agents check in bi-weekly on the patient to obtain any useful information; ensure they would do no more harm to the people or their operations. Gradually, depending on the patient’s mental state, their visits became less frequent as their egos’ were reassured the patient was no longer a threat- or, in the cases the patient managed to escape (none of his patients ever managed to get that far), they were transferred to a secret location to never be heard from again.

He would just need to bide his time. Satiate their hunger on other patients, long forgotten by their family and friends until her fate was the same as theirs.

Looking up, his icy stare found its way to rest upon the woman barred down with straps across her chest and hips and shackled at the wrists. It all seemed silly. Here was a woman, clearly underweight and lacking substantial muscle mass strapped down like an animal. Physically, there was no way she could overpower the orderlies and guards around here. The video evidence submitted to the court only showed her assembling and making explosives. Anyone with a basic understanding of chemistry could do that. Still, airing on the side of caution was always advisable, particularly when the recommendations were coming from government actors that had dealt with her.

The patient stared at a fixed point on the ground, eyes blank and seemingly lifeless. “Miss Makeda, my name is Dr. Jonathan Crane. I am the psychiatrist assigned to your case.”

No response. Not even her eyes drifted up towards him. The patient gave no indication that she had even heard him.

“Miss Makeda?” Jonathan questioned, raising an eyebrow as he waited for a response that never came. Sharply sighing and rising to his feet, he got out his penlight and strode over to the patient. “Makeda, I need you to look at me if you can.” Still no response. God, she looked pale. Had they given her Droperidol or some other form of antipsychotic to restrain her without consulting him first, or was she in shock at being here? If the orderlies had screwed up and given her something they shouldn’t have… “I’m going to tilt your head up and shine this light into your eyes-“ no acknowledgement was expected, but procedure called for it.

Pupils were dilated, unchanging when they were exposed to light, and her skin was cool to the touch as he noticed its sheer, slickness reflecting the office light. Her chest barely rose, indicating a slower intake of oxygen, as her whole body seemed to shake. “Mr. Blake, Mr. Graham, I need one of you to get the bag valve mask. The other, go tell the doctors and nurses we have a patient experiencing an overdose.”

Nimble fingers made their way down to the point under her jaw where the head and neck connected as he took note of her pulse. He didn’t need a clock to tell him it was irregular. Someone had given her something without his consent, and not just that- given her too much.

Stephen Graham was instantly at his side, respirator in hand, stumbling over his words as fear of both the situation and the doctor himself consumed him, ”She wasn’t this bad when we restrained her and brought her here. This wasn’t us, Dr. Crane. I don’t- I’m not-“

**_Look at him cowering before us…_ **

Jonathan held up a hand to silence both the orderly and the voice in his mind as he reached out and snatched up the ventilator. He secured the face mask and the valve and began compressing the bag ever five seconds he nodded to the orderly to begin wheeling her out of his office.

He matched the orderly’s quick pace down the hallway, all while maintaining consistent compressions to ensure the patient was getting enough oxygen. “Did either you or Mr. Blake administer any drug?” he asked coolly, studying Stephen’s face for any sign of a lie.  

“No, Sir, we met with them agent-guys for the exchange, and we restrained her as you see here and brought her to you, just like we was told.”

Jonathan remembered why he rarely spoke to orderlies. They were unintelligent, obedient monkeys, usually possessing little more than a high school education. “And you stated she wasn’t ‘this bad’ when the transfer occurred?”

“No, she just was quiet and still, with that dead look in her eyes- like she’d given up.”

“And you didn’t think that was strange?” Usually, every patient Arkham took in was lively and difficult in some form, whether they were yelling and screaming that they were innocent and sane, or got physical with the orderlies…

Suddenly, Makeda’s amber eyes found his, and for a brief moment, they registered his face, wide with uncertainty before trying to look at her surroundings. Zs she began to frantically move her head to look around, his other hand firmly held her head still. “I need you to remain still. I am manually helping you breathe.”

And just as quickly as her focus came back, the blank stare returned and she went limp once more. He picked up his line of questioning. “You didn’t think it was strange that she was so quiet, despite being told to keep her restrained?”

“No… Well, yes, but-“

They entered into the emergency wing of Arkham, his colleagues were at his side, stopping the orderly in his tracks and barking orders to get the patient out of her restraints and onto the hospital bed.

“Thank you, Dr. Crane, we’ll take it from here,” a nurse stated, taking the respirator from him and edging both the orderly and himself out of the room as they were followed out by the lead emergency doctor, Dr. Eighan.

“Thank you for your quick response, Dr. Crane. We’ll do what we can for her, and we’ll let you know if and when she recovers.”

And just like that, Stephen and Jonathan were left alone outside the emergency room, but not before shouting came from inside the room.

************

It was black, and then it wasn’t.

Makeda’s eyes shot open as she bolted upright, gasping in as much air as she could.

Brightness. White light. Silence.

Then pain tearing at the very seams of her soul. Limbs on fire. Thoughts whirling. Bones collapsing.

World ending pain.

It came flooding in with images of a sterile room like a tide she couldn’t hold back that wracked her entire body, and the nausea. Spinning, everything was twirling around her as the world moved quickly passed. She reached around the bed she found herself on for any sort of container before a trash bin was thrust into her hands, just as she retched into it.

It was an odd feeling. She couldn’t hear anything, not even her own vomiting. If it weren’t for the pain, she’d have assumed this was just another dream. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flurry of motions from the people in the white coats as she continued to empty the contents of her stomach into the bin, before being sent into a state of panic.

Where was she? Who were these people? More scientists?

Drawing from the new adrenalin pumping through her veins, Makeda leapt up out of bed, only to be met by orderlies that attempted, in vain, to restrain her. With ease as though she were possessed by a god, she shook them off and took off running on unsteady legs, pushing through those that were trying to stop her. The pathway to the door was blocked by two larger men in uniforms that tried to restrain her as another person entered the room, watching the chaos unfold.

Thrashing against the grips of the burly men, she lashed out, body moving primarily on instinct.

Flashes of red painted her vision, met with blue and a distinct pinch in her trapezius, and then black. All consuming black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Thank you for those of you that gave me kudos, including Pieblood and EpicSting. I very much appreciate it!

The steady beeping of a machine was the first noise to greet Makeda as her eyes, heavy from the drug-induced sleep, fluttered open. The image of a bright, white room greeted her as she squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust. God, her head hurt. She needed water. Makeda moved to alleviate her thirst, only to find herself strapped down.

The beeping sped up as she tried to sit up, struggling against the straps keeping her tied down to the bed as her head whipped around to figure out a way out.

Jonathan watched as the woman struggled, straining and pulling at the restraints like a rabid animal, gripped with fear.

**You didn’t even use your toxin and she’s giving this reaction.**

Her eyes came to rest upon a figure seated in a chair across from her, and she stilled under his unwavering stare.

The doctor smiled politely at her, but it never reached his eyes.

“Ah, Miss Makeda. Welcome back,” the Jonathan spoke calmly, as his cold gaze held hers, the fear having completely dissipated at the knowledge that she was being watched. He opened up the notebook that had been resting on his lap and made note of her control over her expression as he continued speaking. “Do you remember why you’re here?”

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded his question, thinking hard to remember the events that led her to this bed. Strapped down and hooked up to a heart monitor.

And then It came back to her. Slowly, and then all at once.

The trial.

The transfer.

_“Miss Makeda, my name is Dr. Jonathan Crane. I am the psychiatrist assigned to your case.”_

_“Makeda, I need you to look at me if you can.”_

_“I need you to remain still. I am manually helping you breathe.”_

That voice. The pools of blood. And blue- the very same piercing color as the eyes studying her and her reaction to his question.

Slowly, Makeda nodded her head, her brow crinkling as she regarded him- no doubt trying to decide if he should be trusted or not.

“Good. That skips the need to go through introductions once again.” Not that they had covered much, nor did he feel compelled to explain her situation, particularly when they lacked the proper information to explain her placement in the facility. “Now, as per protocol, I am required to ask if you attempted to kill yourself by overdosing?”

A brief shake of the head denied the question, so he moved on to the next, in an almost bored tone. True to form, she wasn’t speaking. “Do you remember who administered the drugs to you?”

Almost too quickly, she shook her head once more as her fingers fiddled with the edges of the thin, crisp bed sheets that did nothing to alleviate patients from the cold, damp environment. Jonathan raised an eyebrow, taking out his notebook and jotting down a few notes on her small, yet significant, movements that betrayed her answer, before glancing back up at her, firing off another question, “And I’ve been told you insist on not speaking.”

He didn’t need to question that. It was clear already she wasn’t going to open her mouth to speak- at least not yet. The cause of the muteness, however, was unclear. “Is this because you don’t want to talk, or is it a matter of not being able to, due to some underlying cause?”

Amber eyes stared blankly at him in response as she made no movement to neither confirm nor deny his question. Jonathan sighed, careful not to allow his facial expression betray the slight irritation he felt as a result of her _ineptness-_ though maybe inept wasn’t the right word for it. Inept implied she was incapable of an action- of fulfilling responsibility-, but if the government authorities were so insistent upon locking her up in the facility, he highly doubted she was inept. Uncooperative would be a better word to describe it.

“Well,” He tucked away his notebook into his briefcase as he stood up and straightened his tie, “I can imagine you are tired after everything you’ve gone through. I will leave you be for now, but before I do, is there anything I can do for you?”

**Aw, look at you being the gentleman.**

_If I want her to trust me, I have to show I am here to help. Otherwise, we’ll be met with more blank stares, and we can hardly work off of that._

Makeda’s eyes flickered down to the restraints, nodding at them before looking back to him.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that after your stunt with the guards.”

**Oh-ho man that was hilarious! And their screams!**

Jonathan listened to his other half cackle away at the memory of the looks of terror on everyones’ faces. It was quite a show, particularly because it came from someone that was significantly smaller than the guards they hired, and they truly hadn’t expected the strength that the woman possessed- in truth, he hadn’t either. In just a matter of seconds, she had snapped one of the guard’s neck and gouged out the other’s eyes before _he_ had managed to sedate her.

**Gouged his eyes out? The bitch practically tore his face off…**

Yes, his counterpart had particularly enjoyed that part. In just a matter of moments, a seemingly harmless woman had brought the room to its knees. Looking around at that marvelous display, he then understood why she needed to be in the secure wing- not that she had shown she was insane. No, the jury- so to speak- was out on that, still. Rather, she was a force with which to be reckoned. Granted, no one had expected someone suffering from an overdose- previously unresponsive- to suddenly lash out, so she had the element of surprise on her hand.

“Apart from putting anyone else’s life in danger, is there anything else?”

Makeda tilted her head over to the side, her eyes glancing over to the table beside her, upon which a jug of water and a solitary cup sat.

“You want water?”

She nodded quickly and her eyes lit up as Jonathan walked over to the side table and poured her a drink. He couldn't help the slight upward tug at the corners of his lips at the seemingly small, yet important assertion of power as he held it up to the woman’s lips. Makeda drank eagerly as he continued speaking. “You’ll be kept here overnight for observation, and then tomorrow you’ll be brought over to your cell in the secure ward. We’ll have our first session the day after that.” She finished the water, and nodded taking in his words but refused to look at him, hands fiddling once more with the edges of the sheets. She, too, understood the dynamic here. 

He took that as a sign that she was done. “I’ll see you in two days, Miss Makeda.”

* * *

 

As the doctor had promised, Makeda found herself being moved the next day, donning a strait jacket and being strapped down to a wheelchair. The orderlies assigned to her transportation were met a questionable look as they unnecessarily forced her down into the chair- unnecessary, them being sure she didn’t have the energy to fight against, but it was payback. The two guards she took down were friends- it was entirely personal. They met her challenging eyes with indifferent stares. They needn’t explain themselves to another lunatic.

As they passed through the corridors of the buildings, down the various wards and into the elevator that would take them to the most secure place in the building, one of the orderlies watched Makeda intently. Her eyes seemed to danced, taking in the surroundings. She made mental notes of the direction they were taking, picking out distinctive features to mark her way. Old red-and-gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper, arched windows and grandiose oak doors passed by as they weaved through the throngs of doctors and nurses, each one had their eyes trained on her. All watching the new patient. Their eyes told her they already knew what she had done, even if she didn’t entirely remember. All she could recall was the distinct smell and color of blood.

News travels quickly around the asylum, particularly when a patient kills two guards.

The hallways on each floor curved around, with no clear direction. Twists and turns turned the place into a labyrinth- intentional, no doubt, to confuse any patient that tried to escape.

Soon enough, as they ascended the building, the number of doctors dwindled down, and the architecture became stark. Clinical. More steel doors than oak. Very little natural light. The noises reverberated against the now bare, concrete walls. Shrill, shrieking voices, absent bodies and lacking any clear, intelligible structure. Laughter. Panic. Sobbing. All range of emotions were housed within individual cells, each identical to the next.

At least until they reached the maximum security ward. One of the orderlies rolled Makeda out into the dark hallway, cold and damp, while the other gave the patient’s information to the guards stationed directly outside the elevator. The air was pungent and heavy with an earthy smell, typically associated with dirt and mushrooms after a rainy day. Dingy, unfeeling, and impersonal- all together not quite the environment conducive to healing. No, why should Arkham keep up the area? Provide light and any sort of comfort to those confined in this ward? They were the dregs of society, left there to rot and die a stain on the collective social conscience.

They made their way down the corridor, escorted by two armed security guards, to a steel-barred gate illuminated by a single, solitary overhead light. Makeda stared down at the floor as the guards punched in the code to enter. Two codes. Four digits each. The gate unlatched, and they pushed through into another, similarly dark hallway.

The cells here were different. While steel doors greeted the entrance, each cell had a portrait window, allowing both guards to see into the illuminated rooms for 24-hour surveillance. Hers was the first cell to the left, closest to the gate. They shoved her in the room, mentioning something about dinner, and let the door slam shut behind her. The thud and subsequent clicking of the lock echoed in the chamber.

The guard assigned to first watch stood outside the window, looking on as the patient stared absently at the ground, seemingly frozen in time. Face still. Blank. He had half a mind to tap on the glass, like a kid at a zoo to get the exhibit to move. As he lifted a finger to tap on the glass, the patient seemed to break her out of her stupor as her eyes found his, despite being shrouded in darkness. He stood there, frozen in fear, his finger hovering above the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! I apologize for the shortness of the past two chapters. I'm setting the scene before actually delving in deeper. I promise future chapters will be longer. Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay on this. A few personal things came up that prevented me from writing, but it's all good! I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Silence, while it often makes people uncomfortable, has no moral characteristics. Silence is a multifaceted state, particularly when it exists from a person’s inaction. It can be restorative- a time to contemplate, reflect, and return to oneself. It can be healing, calming the spirit and quieting the inner critic. It can be content.

On the other hand, it can be an act of rebellion. Ignoring the demands being thrown out. A refusal to partake in something that makes one uncomfortable in turn makes the oppressor feel the weight of what wasn’t being said. The air becomes heavy with unspoken truths. It can show complacence. Grief. Confusion. It communicates without noise. Context-driven and wholly underappreciated or acknowledged, except when one of the parties involved in conversation feels awkward as a result of its presence

Non-verbal communication is its own language. One that creates the context through which silence can communicate, and it is what Dr. Jonathan Crane had to rely on in his first session with Makeda- not that he minded. It was a challenge meant to be solved. One that required intense scrutiny to tease out the possible meaning behind each movement.

He had the orderly that escorted her remove the straight jacket upon entering the sparse room, so that he could take in every detail- every little thing mattered. Jonathan received a wary look from the orderly, questioning his reasoning behind letting a previously volatile patient out of their restraints, but other than that the orderly made no sign of protest. He did exactly as was asked.

Yes, he was fully aware he was taking a chance. He had the call button and a syringe ready should the new prisoner decide to attack him. It was a calculated risk, one that put trust into a few unknowns- one of which was now slowly walking towards the chair across the metal table from him; the other was the speed with which security would react should they be prompted to. The former didn’t worry him too much. It was a solitary incident that occurred in a fit of hysteria, and given the way in which she eyed the orderly, she was aware of the consequences of lashing out.

His eyes fell to the thick purple and black bruises on her arms where the restraints had been. Makeda followed his gaze down to the bruises, eyebrows shot up as she crossed her arms to cover the darkness on her biceps and forearms. Had it not been for that, her walk to the chair might’ve appeared confident.

Her hands themselves caught his attention, sporting intricate designs. Geometric shapes and flowers stretched from her fingers down to her forearms. Her fingertips were stained with a reddish-yellow color that filled in many of the swirls that adorned her hands and arms. It was wholly unnecessary and quite a waste of time to sit through something so mundane. He wasn’t naïve, though. Jonathan recognized it as a cultural practice. She must have still felt a connection back to her home country…

He began taking copious notes, exquisite in script, detailing every movement to the degree in which she moved in response to his questions. She quickly took her spot on the chair opposite his, bringing her knees to her chest as an added barrier that the table seemingly failed to provide. Chin jutted forward, lips drawn taught into an expression void of any attributable emotion, the lithe woman lifted her gaze to meet his.

Inwardly, Scarecrow cackled at the display of weakness. Typical. A pointless response to create a sense of safety…

“Miss Makeda, if you would put your feet on the ground, we can begin our session.” It wasn’t a request, but a demand, which caused the woman sitting across from him to scrunch up her brow. The tone of voice used and the words didn’t match up to her- or she was unsure why it would be needed, so he elaborated. “Many in the field, including myself, find it is not conducive to creating an environment of safety. Quite the opposite, in fact. It causes the body to remain in high alert as it senses a threat that is not there.”

Makeda stared back, unmoving at first, as though she hadn’t heard him. He was about to repeat himself when she drew in a deep breath, held it for a second, and released both the breath and her legs as she went to mirror his posture. Hands clasped, resting on the table. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Eyes focused on the person across from them.

**_Aww, she thinks she can hide behind mimicry._ **

“How are you feeling today?” It was the stereotypical question asked by every therapist. Cliché. Annoying. Pleasantries never interested Jonathan. Getting to the heart of issues- of human nature and behavior- was what intrigued him. However, there was protocol to follow, particularly when it came to gaining the trust of the prisoner.

He broke eye contact only to flip through the file on her, now containing a medical report, as well as a report on her first day and a half in Arkham. Highlighted in that terrible bright yellow with an added red underscore were her vitals.

_ 87mmHG. 47 bpm. 97.1 _ _ ˚F. _

Beside it was a note, scribbled (much to his dismay) and barely legible, informing him she hadn’t eaten since she arrived. The nurse wrote about her suspicions of an eating disorder. Namely anorexia given the refusal to eat.

The only betrayal of his thinking was the slight arching of the eyebrow. They’d have to keep a close eye on vitals and work on weight restoration. That much was clear.

**_Wouldn’t want to have another heart attack on our hands, huh, Johnny-Boy? The first one wasn’t so bad…_ **

For a brief moment, the image of his wretched grandmother, scared to death, interrupted his thoughts.

Ignoring the voice bringing up the past, he glanced up at Makeda to find her looking around the room- not that there was very much in the room to view. The stark, off-white room only housed the two chairs, the table, and a one-way mirror through which the guards could monitor.

“Have you been eating?” he asked, knowing the answer but expecting to catch her in a lie.

Much to his surprise, however, she shook her head as she met his look with an indifferent stare. There were no outward signs of shame. No slouched shoulders or efforts to make herself smaller than she was. Instead, she remained with her hands clasped on the table, seemingly relaxed.

He made a brief mention of her honesty in his notes. Typically, patients exhibiting restrictive eating behaviors shrouded such habits in secrecy.

“And why is that?”

No response. Not that he expected one at this point. Instead, she held his intense stare, unwavering with a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She knew he was trying to catch her in a lie.

“Tell me, Miss Makeda, are you or have you ever been anxious because of food?” Once more, her brow creased, showing her confusion at the question. So he expanded upon the question, “Racing thoughts, panic over what you’re eating…” She shook her head slowly, quirking an eyebrow as though he was the one that was crazy. “It’s merely a question I must ask based on your file.”

**_She’s looking at you like you sprouted an extra head!_ **

Ignoring the misplaced look of disbelief on her face, he continued along the same line of questioning.

“Would you say you’ve lost a lot of weight within the past month?”

Another shrug accompanied by a blank stare.

“Are you at all, or have you been, preoccupied with your weight?”

A quick shake of the head, this time. He made a quick mental note to remind the nurse not to let their own issues influence thought’s towards a patient’s diagnosis. This is why there were professionals that did diagnoses, and they would do well to remember that. Yes, he would keep an eye out for any obsessive actions taken to control weight, but other than that, it was more than likely due to something else entirely. There were too many possibilities as to what could cause a person not to eat.

It was then that he noted the dark circles under Makeda’s eyes. The slight twitching of the left eyelid and the goosebumps peppered along exposed skin. She was tired.

“How have you been sleeping lately?” Another shrug tried to deflect his question. He followed her eyes to the smudge on the metal table that she chose to look at. Avoiding eye contact usually meant the person was feeling uncomfortable. “Do you usually have trouble sleeping?”

For a moment, there was no response as she leaned back in an attempt to distance herself from him. She pursed her lips, heavy amber eyes still trained on smudge. Her hands left the table to fiddle with the bottom of her shirt.

Jonathan’s cool voice, void of all warmth or comfort brought her attention back to him.  “I am unable to do anything if you do not provide an answer.” Makeda’s eyes flickered back up, wide in surprise at how impersonal the session had become. “It is a simple question. Do you usually have trouble sleeping, Miss Makeda, yes or no?”

She held her breath, searching his face for any sign of malice or comfort and could find neither. As she nodded, she was rewarded with a polite smile, small and unfeeling.

“Is that because you have nightmares?”

The two sat in relative silence, his question lingering in the air. Makeda, once again, became increasingly interested in her hands.

The question- which once more, he knew the answer to- was prompted by another note, this time written in insufferable script. The guards reported that she barely slept, and when she did, she’d wake suddenly, screaming. Jon’s heart leapt as he pictured this, his counterpart rambling off all the possibilities of what haunted her dreams.

Of course, there was no sense in conjecturing just yet- particularly when the woman seated before exhibited signs of selective mutism. The cause was still unknown, as it was nearly impossible to diagnose someone based off one session- a very one-sided session- and very little information on her history. Still, he allowed _him_ to consider the possibilities and the ways in which to trigger the same response out of the shell of a woman sitting before him.

Finding his inquisitive stare more unbearable than the question itself, Makeda nodded but still refused to look back up at him.

“I will get you something to help with both the sleepless nights and the nightmares.” His polite smile grew more pronounced as he jotted down her answers and reactions. “I have a few more questions before we end today’s session.”

* * *

 

**_You just wrote off valuable time to Mutey McMutester._ **

His other half had been berating him non-stop since he ordered Makeda to eat each meal with the psychiatrist on call.

_Need I remind you we have a job to do? One that gives us ample test subjects? And it’s only twice a week. You’re acting as though I signed away all our time._

Jonathan stormed into his office, taking care to quietly shut the door despite his growing irritation. Placing his briefcase down a little to forcefully on his desk, he sat down and pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to force away the voice trying to adjust for his supposed mistakes.

**_Well, we can’t do any testing if your busy with inmates all day._ **

He popped open his briefcase and pulled out his notes on his sessions from the morning, turning to his computer to type them up. Anything to distract him from the nagging voice, and this simple, mundane task needed to be done. There was no sense in maintaining messy files, particularly when they were riddled with chicken scratch handwriting from those with no sense of propriety.

_Again, if I don’t put the necessary effort into my job, we won’t have unrestricted access to the inmates. If you have any other source of veritable lab rats society has forgotten about where I can also effectively practice my profession, I’m all ears…_

Arguably, having this kind of mental conversation with a persona built up as a method of self-preservation wasn’t the most logical way to expend mental prowess, but he was long past trying to ignore _him_. Often, he would remind Jonathan the only reason for his success- for getting out of that Georgian hellscape; out from under his grandmother’s fanatic control and into controlling his own life.

> _'Inmate exhibited extreme agitation to his surroundings, namely the “dripping” walls. Inmate suffering from paranoid delusions of a nightly visitor. The specter in his mind is now presenting itself as a Scarecrow. Frequency of the “visitations” has increased to three nights a week-'_

**_You only want to spend more time with her to get in her pants._ **

Jonathan’s fingers hovered above the keyboard as he blinked in irritation with pursed lips.

_Odd, seeing as I’m not the one focused on her currently. I sense a little jealousy._

**_You forget, Johnny-Boy, we are the same person…_ **

> _'No change in sleeping patterns. Increasing dosage of quetiapine beginning tonight, March 22 nd-'_

**_Miss Molly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick. So she called for the doctor to come quick, quick, quick._ **

> _'Monitor every 15 minutes for changes in sleeping patterns-'_

**_Is Miss little Makeda going to make the doctor cum quick, quick, quick?_ **

It took the stinging in his hands to realize he had slammed them on his desk. Ignoring _him_ obviously wasn’t working, though it was to be expected. Usually twice a month, _he_ became stronger, refusing to be pushed away to the back of Jonathan’s mind. It occurred during unusually busy shifts due to an uptick in admissions. The voice would get stronger, feeding off of Jonathan’s exhaustion to break free from the restraints Jonathan had built up. This time was no exception.

And just like every other time _he_ got unruly, Jonathan unlocked his top-left drawer and grabbed the smooth orange pill bottle. Leaning back into his chair, he popped open the bottle and downed to pills. He closed his eyes as he waited for silence to prevail once more so that he could continue his work in peace.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I'm not used to writing from Crane's perspective, but I'm trying to branch out. Also, I'm not at all a psychiatrist. I just looked up things on the interwebs, peeps. If you are concerned with your mental health, or were triggered by anything on this, please go see a professional. Outside of my own experiences, I have no idea about anything related to psychiatry/psychology.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for taking the time to read this! It means a lot to me. Special shout out to EpicSting for leaving a comment! It really does encourage me to keep writing. Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. I try to update weekly, but the past two weeks have been busy with packing and moving things. Anyways, this chapter is longer than the others! I hope you enjoy!

Pride wasn’t something prisoners could afford to maintain- particularly those written off as insane. Insanity was the debt-collector. Taking any source of dignity from those it followed, discrediting any action- good or bad- from those it labeled. If the sub-standard food and various restraints, both physical and chemical, didn’t dehumanize the inmates, the cold showers and numerical identifiers did.

And maybe that’s why Makeda was labeled as such. Any action she had taken in the past was discredited by the decision passed down by a judge. It was a huge pill Makeda was forced to swallow as she was wheeled down the hallway to the cafeteria, already packed with a sea of orange jumpsuits. While she had two perfectly fine legs, she was confined to a chair because she was “medically unstable”.

The journal and a single black crayon- given to her by Dr. Crane- had been the only thing keeping her from despair. It was an anchor to reality, a place to attempt to control her thoughts; the turbulent waves of doubt and loss of control threatened to capsize her raft of reality that she was balance on precariously. No one told her anything. No schedule was provided to her. No tailored program except for the one-on-one sessions with her assigned psychiatrist. Surrounded by constant violence- just one day in and she had already seen an inmate stabbed repeatedly with a shank carved out of an eyeglass stem. It was like those running the asylum weren’t even trying to create an air of safety and healing.

Breakfast at the asylum, however, was relatively peaceful. Despite the crowded cafeteria where the prisoners were forced to congregate- an act which usually produced some form of violent outbreak- the prisoners were still shaking off the sleep from their eyes, drug-induced and difficult to bounce back from. The burnt popcorn smell of burned coffee mixed with the sickeningly sweet smell of over-sweetened oatmeal, both of which were given to each inmate along with a choice of fruit.

The orderly that had pushed her into the cafeteria left her at the table while he lumbered over to get her food. The stares. She could feel the other inmates staring. Judging. Why were they staring? Were they actually staring?

Makeda glanced up. No. No one was staring. Alright, one person, seated at the far end of the table, was staring. Unkempt brown hair, glimmering green eyes, cheeks sunken in, and surprisingly muscular. And now he was scooting closer to her until, at last, he was sitting beside her.

“Hello, my dear. I’ve been wondering when I’d have the pleasure of introducing myself.” The slender man held out a hand for her to shake, only prompting her to stare at it, unmoved. The tenor voice pulled her out of the swirling thoughts that attempted to drown her sanity. So far, none of the other inmates had bothered to introduce themselves to her. Maybe it was the wheelchair or the constant presence of an orderly that kept them away, but none of it seemed to matter to this man.

“No touching!” came a booming voice, directed at the bespectacled man, who subsequently withdrew his hand.

“Excuse me for trying to preserve some semblance of civility,” he called out to the guard, waving his arms grandly as he stood up from his seat. “We may be the so-called dregs of society, but we shouldn’t be reduced to nothing more than primates in a zoo.”

Makeda looked around, slightly shocked by the outburst, but nobody looked up from their food or halted their conversations. Apparently, outbursts from this man were commonplace.

He took his seat once more and continued, “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I am Edward Nygma, and you are?”

Before he could even pick up on the fact Makeda didn’t speak, a voice, high-pitched and perky, spoke up, “Makeda!”

The two inmates at the table turned to see a woman, blonde hair pulled back and wearing a white coat, walking over to them. “Ed, good to see you!” The doctor commented as she took a seat across from Makeda as she motioned for the orderly to bring over Makeda’s food. “I see you’ve met Makeda.”

“Ah, Dr. Quinzel! I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting her,” Edward commented, smiling at the doctor. “And what brings you to our little domain?”

The doctor pulled out a brown lunch bag, “I’m here to have breakfast with Makeda.” She turned to face the silent inmate, who was sipping coffee and grimacing at the taste. “Hi there, Makeda! I’m Dr. Quinzel, the psychiatrist on call for today.”

The bubbly voice, warm and friendly, was a drastic contrast to Crane’s, bringing a small smile to Makeda’s lips. There were no power plays; no severe line of questioning upon introduction. A feeling of ease washed over her as she nodded a hello. That wave of peace was over quickly, however, as the weight of two pairs of eyes caused her to shift uncomfortably.

Sensing the inmate’s unease, Dr. Quinzel addressed Edward, “Eddie, would you mind giving us some space?”

Ed, also picking up on his fellow inmate’s anxiety, quietly agreed and returned to his prior seat, watching in silence as Makeda stared down at her food.

“How are you feeling, Makeda? I understand you just started taking sleeping meds,” Dr. Quinzel took a sip of her coffee, peering over the rim of the mug. She received only a shrug in response. If the lack of response annoyed her, she showed no expression of it. The doctor’s eyes fell to Makeda’s hands, white knuckled as she cradled her mug with two hands.

“Ooh, I really like the designs on your hands,” she commented, bringing back the smile to Makeda’s face.

“When you’re comfortable, I’ll have to ask you to tell me the significance of it,” Dr. Quinzel continued and launched into telling Makeda about her two tattoos (though, really ‘I shouldn’t tell inmates, but it was girl talk, and how a person adorned themselves said a lot about their thought processes. Unless they were drunk, but then it was just a funny story to tell’).

The psychiatrist on call seemed to have no problem with one-sided conversation, easily continuing to talk as she ate her food. Asking questions only to give her own perspective moments later, they moved through a range of conversation- from recent books and movies to the difference in brands of hair dye. All the while, Makeda kept her smile, brought out by the warmth that radiated from the doctor.

Still, despite the slight feeling of normalcy Dr. Quinzel was trying to provide, Makeda didn’t eat. Instead, Makeda spun around the plastic spoon in the mush of oatmeal as she downed the one cup of coffee allotted to her, all of which would be reported to Dr. Crane.

* * *

 

The incoherent symphony created by the screaming of inmate 24506 permeated through the solid steel door as Jonathan Crane exited the room. The schizotypal man, admitted to the asylum three years prior, had been growing increasingly noncompliant with his treatment plan as a result of a period of intense stress, causing him to withdraw from all human interaction, distrusting those that were trying to help rehabilitate him after nightly manifestations of a man made of straw.

As Jon took off his glasses to clean them from the coagulated spit on his lenses, he was greeted by one of the security guards.

“Doctor, there’s a situation that requires your attention.”

The guard fell in step with the psychiatrist as they rounded a corner to enter the basement’s only elevator.

“Yes, seeing as we are in an asylum, there are many situations that require my attention,” Jon responded coolly as he filed away the results of the most recent round of testing in his head. Ideally, he would be physically recording these sessions- the various compositions and states of his formula; the reactions and revelations it brought out; the respective dosages administered and the timed responses.

His most recent session was not as successful as he had planned. The inmate had barely managed to produce a vivid, lasting hallucinations. At best, the inmate seized, unable to grasp a concrete manifestation of fear. At worst, it was a glorified trip.

“Sir?”

Realizing the guard had been talking to him the whole time and was waiting for a response, he resigned himself to the reality this particular guard was going to drop the subject. Jon walked out of the elevator, the guard trailing right on his heels, where he turned to address the man, “Mr. Smith, thank you for bringing this to my attention. Explain to me what the problem is- calmly this time.”

“We apprehended an intruder. When we brought him into questioning, he refused to tell us anything until he saw Makeda. He claims he’s her husband. We’ve been able to ‘ID’ this intruder as Daniel Mkubwa.”

**_Oh ho, bet you didn’t see that one coming, huh, Johnny-Boy?_ **

_No one lives in a bubble. Someone was bound to try and visit her-_

**_Not that. Miss Little Makeda’s other half._ **

“Bring Mr. Knox to my office. I’ll speak with him.” Jon resumed his stride down to his office, where he addressed Scarecrow.

_I am unsure of how her relations outside this asylum should concern me._

**_I know what you want, remember?_ **

The moment Makeda’s face appeared in his mind, he pushed the image away, knowing what his alter was doing. Instead, he conjured up the rest of the notes from his session.

> _Liquid is faster-acting, but less effective at producing hallucinations. Signs of panic are present, but concrete visual manifestations of the subjects’ fears are absent._

Scarecrow was silent, seemingly content with the recollection of the experiments from the morning. Even if the toxin was as potent when it was introduced orally through liquid, they screamed all the same. The momentarily placated voice allowed him to pull out Makeda’s file in relative peace as he prepared to record whatever knowledge this intruder could impart.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of the visitor. Without looking up from his notes, Jon addressed the security guard, “Send him in, Mr. Smith. I can take it from here.”

The ornate oak door swung open and abruptly slammed closed, leaving the two of them alone. Jon peered up at the visitor and motioned for him to take a seat. The man lumbered over to the leather chair, fists clenched as he looked around the office, eyes wide in what could be construed as fear.

Jon suppressed the wicked grin that threatened to spread his lips. The man, easily bigger in height and muscle mass, was trembling- afraid, no doubt, of the stories he had heard from the asylum, and yet he still dared to break in.

**_Let’s give him something to really fear._ **

_Patience._

Jon rose to his feel as the man drew nearer and extended a hand in greeting, “Mr. Mkubwa, I presume. I am Dr. Jonathan Crane, the psychiatrist in charge of Miss Makeda’s care.”

“It would be Mrs. Mkubwa, Dr. Crane,” came the smooth baritone, catching him in his mistake- which was, in fact, fully intentional. The two shook hands; a bony soft hand meeting a freshly-calloused one in equally vice-like grips.

Mirroring the others’ actions, they took their seats, Daniel still surveying the doctor’s office, mouth agape as he took in all of the books that lined the walls. Books ranging from the fields of psychology and chemistry to literature and mythology. From world religions to works written by those denying a higher power. Music theory to art history. All subjects were of great import. All gave a glimpse into the collective human conscience and the pursuit of knowledge. Jon had spent his lifetime finding solace and clarity in the written word.

“I understand you were attempting to see Miss Makeda-“

“Mrs. Mkubwa, and yes. I have the right to see my wife.”

Jonathan’s plush lips pursed as he took in the man seated before him, fidgeting with the edge of his white t-shirt, still avoiding the doctor’s gaze.

**_Nerves or deceipt?_ **

_I know which one you’re hoping for…_

The man, still very youthful- complexion free from wrinkles, his hands relatively smooth despite the fresh blisters on his palms, suggesting baby skin being toughened by whatever workout regimen he had recently taken up; the distinct dark blue glint of Gotham High class ring on the right hand’s ring finger. He had to recently be out of high school or was in his first year of college. Either Makeda was much younger than the early-to-mid-thirties he’d assumed her to be, or the intruder was lying.

**_Look at him squirming!_ **

Giving the lack of a wedding band and the youthful complexion, Jon was beginning to believe the latter.

“Tell me, Mr. Mkubwa, when did you and,” Jon paused, indulging the farce, “Mrs. Mkubwa marry? Her file failed to provide any information on her family.”

**_You can’t seriously be-_ **

The young man began studying Jonathan’s desk as his brow furrowed, clearly showing his thought process on his face. “Uhh, two years ago, sir.”

It sounded like a question.

“Are you unsure of when you two wed? Surely such a joyous occasion would be easily recalled.”

Much to Jon’s surprise, Daniel met his stare. “Of course. We’ve just been together so long...”

“How did you two meet?”

Again, he shrunk away from the question. “Uh, we met in college. We took a political science class together, and the teach- professor paired us up for a project.”

Jonathan leaned forward, eyebrows raised as he feigned interest in the young man’s tale. “Ah, political science. I must say, I’ve found much of the political theories draw on observational psychology. I particularly enjoy the works of Hobbes and Machiavelli.”

“Oh. Oh yeah. Those guys are dope.”

The boy had no idea what he was talking about.

“Who did you enjoy most? You’ll have to indulge me. It’s rare I get to speak about disciplines outside of psychology around here.”

His question drew forth more silence and squirming. It was as though he was a child being caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

Jon, true to form, removed his glasses and clasped his hands on his desk. “Mr. Mkubwa, may we speak plainly? I don’t enjoy having my time wasted, nor do I want to waste your time.”

For the first time since entering the office, the young man visibly relaxed, releasing the tension he was holding in his shoulders. “Was I that obvious?”

“Usually married couples wear wedding bands or some form of indication of marital status. Neither Miss Makeda nor you wear anything.”

**_Oh, so you were looking? Does Johnny-Boy actually care?_ **

_I wouldn’t be good at my job if I didn’t know about my patients._

**_But Little Miss Mutey hasn’t told you anything about herself._ **

_Hence this meeting…_

Jon could feel the pride radiating from Scarecrow. What did he expect? They shared the same mind. No action taken was meaningless. It all had a purpose, carefully constructed and considered.

“I mean, I am wearing a ring-“

“A class ring.”

Daniel’s smile radiated as he laughed and nodded. “True, true.”

“Now, how do you know Miss Makeda?”

The man before him resumed his fidgeting. The squeaking of leather became a constant noise. “We were roommates up until she was arrested. We came to the US together… she looked out for me since I had no family- neither of us did… Most kids in the program didn’t. They were either killed or disappeared.”

It was a point of time he had tried to push from his mind. The past was a painful reminder of what he had endured; of those that suffered as a result of a war that ripped their country in two. Rather than face the past trauma head on, he- as many others tended to do- tried to ignore it, using any form of distraction, healthy and unhealthy, to keep the monsters at bay.

Jon recognized this almost as soon as Daniel started talking. Being a survivor and counselling others made it easy to pick out based on casual interactions. The everywhere from nervous ticks and the distant eyes to overcompensating happiness and confidence or flat out becoming an abuser themselves.

“And what program was this?” Jon asked, jotting down his answers in his notebook.

“It was a program started by Thomas and Martha Wayne to rehabilitate child soldiers... I- I don’t know why they started it up. Believed we could help improve the city’s reputation or some shit like that. It was all political. I doubt anyone that rich could be kind enough to do that without some ulterior motive…”

His eyes, dark as the night sky, darted every which way as he trailed off, hands spinning the silver ring on his finger. Shame: it followed him around still. Thought he wasn’t redeemable.

It wasn’t the story Jon was expecting, particularly coming from the unassuming man before him. He seemed too young and unscathed by life to have witnessed such brutalities of war, but then again, the human brain was powerful- able to readjust to any and all circumstances, for better or worse.

“And how long ago were you two in this program?”  


“15 years- I was seven and Kei was 16 at the time. Did Kei not say any of this?”

So she did usually speak. The muteness must have been a recent development.

“She hasn’t spoken a word throughout the trial and her time here.”

Daniel’s hands rubbed his face as he took in this information. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kei roll over and take it from those pigs.”

The nickname didn’t go unnoticed by Jon or Scarecrow, but there was another question on the doctor’s mind that needed clarification.

“Pigs?”

“Yeah, y’know, bad cops. That’s what the Black Panther Party called those that abuse their power and use violence indiscriminately.” He edged towards the end of his seat, leaning forward with hope glistening in his eyes. The strain of desperation colored his tone, “Is she alright? I should see her. I bet I could get her-“

Jon’s lips pressed into a straight line, withholding his frustration with the young man’s insistence. This meeting was quickly bordering on the edge of uselessness. He had enough information to satisfy his curiosity for the time being.

“Mr. Mkubwa, you fail to grasp the severity of the situation in which you’ve found yourself. You have trespassed onto private property to see someone whom the government has gone to great lengths to erase. You lied about your relationship with Miss Makeda to security-“

“You said you wouldn’t report me-“

“And I won’t, but if the agents that check in ask the guards, it is possible the guards would report an attempted visit.”

Jon leaned back in his chair and watched from behind steepled fingers as Daniel took in the information. His previously relaxed shoulders were now pinched up to his ears in a permanent shrug. His eyes, once dark and shiny, seemed far off, dulled by thought and anxiety.

Daniel was correct. He could probably get Makeda to talk. Familiarity provided an environment of safety and comfort in those experiencing selective mutism. Given the length of their friendship- assuming the boy wasn’t lying- he would more than likely provide such an environment to her. However, there were protocols to follow. Even in the event he was Makeda’s husband, her status as a high-risk, maximum security inmate severely restricted her access to visitors and vice versa.

“I will see what I can do about the possibility of setting up a session for you to speak with Miss Makeda, but I won’t promise anything,” Jon mused as he jotted down some information he gleaned from the man. “What is the best number for us to reach you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, again! Y'all rock my socks! I'm still adjusting to writing for Crane and the other canon characters, so be patient with me! It's been a while since I've written anything Batman related. Side note, the last name Mkubwa means "big" or "great" in kiSwahili.


End file.
